


In the Next Life

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Gen, Implied Aeleus/Ienzo, M/M, Post-DDD, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-13 16:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: A collection of one-offs about the Apprentices after the events of Dream Drop Distance. Radiant Garden is different, the Castle is different, they themselves are different...There are a lot of adjustments--and apologies--to be made.





	1. Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for mapleflavoreddice on tumblr.

He had to admit, it was probably a terrible idea to tempt fate like this. When last they’d spoke–well…when _had_ they last spoken to one another? Even after wracking his brain, he couldn’t recall. When they had fallen out, they had fallen out _hard_ , bringing the wrath of the elements with them. He couldn’t remember the words they’d had, but the scars he’d earned gave a reminiscent throb.

But he _had_ to reach out to him. It was only the four of them now, and they _needed_ him. _He_ needed him. Maybe he was stubborn, and maybe he was sullen, but at the end of the day, he was smart and he was strong and he was…or _had been_ , his friend.

Dilan was his _friend_.

It was strange, the things that came with regaining a heart. In a way, it felt as though eons had passed; certainly the walls of the Castle seemed to suggest this, broken down and rotting where once they had been pristine. They had all lived and died and become entirely different people, grown into terrible, hungry monsters. But then, by the same token, it felt almost as if no time had elapsed at all, as though the clock had simply stopped, and now they were left to pick up where they left off, wildly off-rhythm.

They hadn’t spoken when first they’d woken up.

Aeleus had been the first to regain consciousness, face pressed flat against the dusty laboratory floor, and he had been alone in that consciousness for an eternity. He had been left to gawk at the scene before him, feeling the strangest wave of déjà and jamais vu as he saw the figures sprawled out where they’d fallen, no longer cloaked in black but white and blue.

When there was movement, he had swooped in to help Ienzo first–old habits died hard, and the sight of him pulling in that first choked breath had triggered something primal, some need to protect. He’d helped him up and gotten him on his feet before he noticed Dilan.

And to his credit, the moment he realized he was moving, he was right there, kneeling down and trying to right him. But he’d been pushed away by a callous rolling of the other Guard’s shoulder, his help refused. Dilan gave no reason, but Aeleus thought he didn’t need to guess. Ienzo first–Ienzo _always_ came first. Before Dilan, before Xaldin, before anything or anyone else. So he’d watched as Dilan pulled himself up off the ground and shambled away towards the hallway where their old rooms had been, where they hoped their old rooms would _still_ be.

There was anxiety, then, as he stood just on the other side of the grand entrance doors, arms folded across his chest. That was something he had forgotten, the horrible, choking thrum of nerves. Things had been so bad for so long, and crossing the threshold brought with it the marked possibility that there would be no repairing the rift Xehanort had wrought between them.

But Aeleus was nothing if not brave.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the sunlight–not as bright as it used to be, he thought, but better than the swirling darkness they’d become so accustomed to–walking out to the old guard post.

For a long moment, he stood wordlessly at Dilan’s side, as they had done for years and years and years before the labs had fallen. “Are we going to be okay?” he asked finally, surprised at how even his voice was.

Dilan’s silence brought with it equal parts dread and shame. But then, miraculously, he released a heavy breath through his nose. “We always are,” he said simply.

Maybe things would be different, this time around.


	2. Impasse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for confusionsign on tumblr.

“That was _not_ helping! You _knew_ that wasn’t helping!”

“I mean…I guess it really depends on your definition of _helping_ , dunnit?” Lea spoke with the sort of performative nonchalance that had become his brand, of late. Passersby might’ve confused it for naiveté or, worse yet, brash disregard for the situation he’d found himself in. But had the two had an audience of their peers, it would’ve been made immediately apparent that it was an act. When face to face with a furious, cornered predator, one had to do two things: Show no fear and maintain direct eye contact. Failure to do either would likely result in evisceration.

And while Ienzo was far from a predator, the memory of Zexion was still fresh in the ether, scenting the air with ozone and blood. More to the point, he was _furious_ –furious in a way his body had not been capable of for more than a decade. It was common knowledge that anger emboldened even the most placid. “Who do _you_ know…” Ienzo began, pits of his cheeks turning a mottled red, the usual neatness of his hair reduced to frantic flyaways, “Whose definition of _helping_ includes _murder?!”_ The fluidity of his speech had changed, become more staccato, harsh reports of gunfire in the dark. It was a warning sign…but for what, neither of them knew.

Lea leveled his gaze, keeping his face unaffected. “Well, for starters…you.” He blinked a couple times before the corners of his mouth turned up into something sardonic.

“You _killed_ me!” Ienzo seethed, fists prim little knots at his sides, pinching the fabric of his lab coat into ugly puckers. “You _killed_ Ve–Even!”

He didn’t miss so much as a beat, parrying the accusation with one of his own. “And you two killed _me_.”

Ienzo had opened his mouth to respond, to fire off another barb, but both were surprised to find that there was nothing behind his teeth but shallow breaths.

Clucking his tongue, Lea laced his fingers behind his own head, stretching back in the chair. “Right. Forgot about that nasty little detail, didn’t you? _All of you_ seem to do that. A lot. Almost like it’s _inconvenient_ for you, huh?” He let out a small, mirthless laugh, “ _Weird!”_ Turning back to Ienzo, he cocked his head to the side minutely, “From my point of view–not that you asked for it, not that you’ve _ever_ asked for it, really–you and me are even-stevens.” He let his tongue absently poke at the tip of an incisor as he watched Ienzo struggle through each and every facial expression known to humankind. It was only then that he stood, pushing the chair to the side with a foot as he crossed the space between them.

There had been a time, he knew, that being this close to Ienzo would fill his stomach with lead and bile; the boy’s shadow had inspired the same horror that most children felt upon hearing the boogeyman’s name. But now…now there was something else. Anger, certainly. Indignation, most definitely.

But also something that he had begun to suspect was _pity_. It wasn’t a thought he dwelt on, these days.

He stood over him, still struck by the strange power of Ienzo’s presence. Whatever that power was, though, it was nothing compared to Zexion–neither was it _anything_ compared to a _Keyblade_. “You killed me. I woke up. I killed you. You woke up.” With a sweeping gesture, much grander than it needed to be, Lea shrugged. “Sounds even to me.”

Ienzo regarded him for a long time, the patches of color in his cheeks darkening, spreading down to his neck. His eyes were fever-bright with rage, and in that moment, Lea knew it would be a long, long time before the kid finally burned _that_ out of his system. But at length, he spoke. “Let’s _keep it that way.”_


	3. What the Heart Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for unsafebet on tumblr.

“I love you,” Ienzo breathed, “I’ve _always_ loved you.”

And oh, how he wanted to believe that–wanted to believe _anything_ that came out of Ienzo’s mouth. Reconstitution and realization had taken its toll on him, to be sure, but he was still so terribly _different_ from the rest of them. His eyes were brighter, he spoke without torturous contemplation…but he still smelled like Zexion, and he still walked as though he ruled over the underground, and his smiles never quite reached his eyes.

“No,” Aeleus said, voice low as approaching thunder. “You haven’t.”

Ienzo watched him with Zexion’s gaze, lips pressed into a tight line. Had the hallway been darker, the walls whiter, he might’ve thought the Schemer was preparing to bark out an order. But Ienzo held no sway over this world–even if the claim had been his, once upon a happier time. “I _have_ ,” he spoke slowly, a rasp to his voice that might’ve been due to emotion, might’ve been another gauzy disguise. His shoulders were squared, and even though he stood as though the world balanced on his shoulders, Aeleus couldn’t help but notice how very, very _frail_ he was, stripped of his black cloak. “You were the only one who ever listened to me, the only one who ever _believed_ me–believed _in_ me. The others saw a freakshow act or a _tool_ , and you saw a _person_.”

“I did,” he ceded. If the expression on his face was anything to go by, Ienzo did not appreciate the past tense.

“Even back there, even in the _dark_ …you were there. You never _left_. You stayed with me, even in Oblivion, when the deck was stacked. You were– _are_ –everything.” His jaw clenched tightly, making him look somehow more desperate, more childish, more dangerous than he ever had. “ _We destroyed worlds together._ They were _afraid_ of us, we were _unstoppable together_ , we were a _force of nature_ –how could I _not_ love you?”

Aeleus spent a moment watching the angry rise and fall of his shoulders. Had Ienzo been like that before losing his heart? Had there ever been any difference between him and Zexion? Aeleus realized with a shiver that he couldn’t remember. “You didn’t,” he said again, resolute and unflinching. “You didn’t love me. You _needed_ me.”

He had expected Ienzo to react in some way, _any_ way, but he didn’t. “You have no _idea_ what I’ve felt,” Ienzo said finally, hands clenched at his sides.

“But I know what you _haven’t_.” Because as much as it hurt, as much as it exhausted and shamed and frustrated him, Aeleus _had_. He had _always_ loved Ienzo.


	4. Brothers in Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for triceraclops on tumblr.

“You think you can hate me more than I hate myself?”

“No,” Aeleus shot back, voice carrying with it a gravitas that had been absent since they’d woken up whole once more, “No I _don’t_ think I can hate you more than _you_ hate you–but I’ll tell you, if you continue acting like a spoiled child, I might not have much choice in the matter.”

 _That_ shut Dilan up, and quickly.

Heaving a heavy, wistful sigh–the sort that had quickly become something of a trademark for him–Aeleus shifted from his lean against the rail. “If you keep _dwelling_ on it all, you’re going to drive yourself mad. The rest of us, too.” His expression was, as always, stony. Unreadable. Some things never changed. “We all did things we regret.”

Dilan scoffed, shaking his head as he watched the sun slowly sink below the skyline. “It’s _that_ easy for you, is it?” A corner of his lip twisted up into a sneer, eyes narrowing against the tide of thought threatening to overtake him.

Aeleus was, to his own credit, a paragon of patience. But now he felt it beginning to wear thin, fraying where Dilan continued to rub and rub and rub with his anger and resentment and self-flagellation. “None of this has been _easy_.” The accusation itself was insulting–they _all_ had to face the ruins of the world they’d once loved, they _all_ had to come to terms with the awful discoveries they’d made about the sort of people they were–but there was no way for him to _say_ that without bringing on a fresh wave of Dilan’s ire.

The two had known each other since time immemorial, it seemed. And though lifetimes had passed between them, the dynamic had remained shockingly static and unchanging. Dilan had always worn his passions on his sleeve, had always been prone to strong gusts of melancholy or rage; Aeleus had always been the even keel, knowing how to ride out the worst of the storms. This too, he hoped, would pass.

“Here’s an ultimatum for you,” he said, breaking the uneasy silence between them. “Either you get over yourself and start helping us figure out how to _fix_ what we broke…” Aeleus let his voice trail off warningly for a moment. “Or you can keep moping, keep wallowing in that anger, and when Xehanort shows up again…well you can pick up right where _Xaldin_ left off, can’t you?” 

Slowly, very slowly, Dilan turned to look at him. Aeleus held that gaze silently, appraisingly, offering him nothing more than a quirked eyebrow.

Clucking his tongue with a sigh of his own, Dilan shifted his gaze to the sky once more, watching as the last sliver of sunlight disappeared and Radiant Garden’s clouds became alight with purples and fuschias. “Guess I don’t have much choice, huh?”

“You have all the choice in the world, Dil. Think on it.”


	5. Amends to Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for lapislazulily on tumblr.

Though he was loathe to admit it, there had been… _apprehension_ whenever he considered returning to the labs. He wanted to chalk it up to a simple association: He had died there, ergo it was not safe. But it was more than that. So very, very much more. And honestly, the whole business of having a heart again, well…it was making _everything_ that much more difficult.

Having a heart meant he _couldn’t_ simply write everything off as incidental; having a heart meant that he had to take stock of what was _really_ going on inside his head. Historically, that was not something at which Ienzo was particularly adept. He was getting better at recognizing things for what they truly were, sure, but when it came to owning up to them he was still abysmal.

Utterly, unmistakably, undeniably abysmal.

Still, he had made up his mind–as though to defy the furious racing of his heart whenever the thought occurred–to go back down those stairs, to blow the dust off of their old research, and to a much lesser extent, face his fears.

“I didn’t expect to see _you_ down here anytime soon.”

The voice sent fingers of ice through his ribs. He could feel the hand squeeze around his heart, filling the space around his lungs with freezing water. Ienzo debated whether he wanted to take the final step into the labs after all, or if it would be easier to just…turn away. He set his shoulders. “And _I_ didn’t expect to see _you_ awake anytime soon.” Keeping his gait casual, he approached one of the old, broken consoles, pretending to be wholly interested in the cobwebs that had gathered between the screen and its keys. “Color us both surprised.”

Even raised his eyes from what he’d been looking at–a cluster of books laying open, their pages covered in his own thin, spidery script. He regarded Ienzo with equal parts wariness and intrigue before returning to his old notes. “I’ve been awake for some time now, actually.”

“Mmm.” The sound was airy, noncommittal. _Uninterested_. Both knew it was a farce. Both knew there was _nothing_ that happened in the Castle which escaped Ienzo’s knowledge. “Adjusting?”

“As well as one could expect, I suppose.”

Ienzo pulled one sleeve over his hand–it was still distressingly easy to do, the sleeves upsettingly too long for him, still–and wiped a layer of dust from a screen as he attempted to wake the machine connected to it. “Considering none of us _expected_ this, I’m not entirely sure whether that’s meant to be reassuring or concerning.”

Even’s eyes continued to scan the page, though he found he had long since stopped reading. “Take it as you will, then.” The air had taken on a strange, tense energy since Ienzo had entered. There was an uncertainty hanging thick between them, the sort of condensed and latent energy that crackled to life whenever two like-minded predators found they had cornered the same prey. At least back in the basement of Oblivion, there had been shadow in which they could couch themselves; in the Castle, everything was bright and brilliantly illuminated.

Meaning, of course, that they were forced to _see_ each other–literally _and_ figuratively.

After what seemed to be an eternity of strained silence, Even had had enough. With a dry cluck of his tongue, he shut the book he’d been looking over with a pronounced _thwump!_ and turned to face Ienzo. It wasn’t a reaction he relished in any way, as he already _knew_ what Ienzo was thinking. Even was _always_ the first to break. _Always_. But surprising himself, he found he didn’t much care _what_ Ienzo thought just then. “Is it going to be like this for the rest of time?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest as he watched Ienzo pointedly ignore him.

“Like what?” Ienzo had managed, miraculously, to get one of the old machines up and running. He poured his attention into entering old passwords and encryption keys in an attempt to–ostensibly–access old files. He kept his back to Even.

“Pretending nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing _has_ happened.” Ienzo shrugged, but the motion seemed scripted. He took a moment to turn, offering Even only his profile over one shoulder, “It’s not like _I’m_ the one who killed you. Nor you me. We carried on our work as usual. What else is there to discuss?”

Even felt the corners of his mouth tighten as he managed to barely suppress a biting remark. It was only recently that he had woken up, and much as he would vehemently deny it if pressed, he knew he was not yet in any condition to go toe-to-toe with Ienzo in any sort of argument. The boy wielded words in much the same way Even wielded a scalpel–masterfully and _lethally_. “Oh I think there’s plenty to discuss.”

Ienzo _did_ turn, then. He leaned himself back against the console and folded his arms as well, a perfect imitation of Even’s stance. Maybe he noticed this, noticed that in the right light the resemblance the others always commented on was really and truly _there_ , and a moment later he held his arms at his sides instead. “All right. Where would you like to begin? Oblivion, where you were a disposable means to an end, keeping me from getting my hands dirty? No? How about The World That Never Was, where you were wholly passed over for a leadership role–well, _any_ role that would’ve earned you a modicum of respect, really–because _I_ was the golden child? Hmmm, or would you prefer to go back further?” He leaned in, almost confidentially, but the cruel, mocking curve of his mouth was apparent, “Is this about my childhood? Do you want to talk about my childhood, Even? Where to even _begin_ with that mess–”

“If you think I don’t know you well enough to recognize when you’re feeling cornered, you are _sorely_ mistaken, boy.”

Ienzo’s scowl deepened, having the distressingly incongruous result of making him look somehow younger, as though he were only a child pitching a fit. “I am not–”

“You prattle on and on and on, lashing out with that sharp little tongue of yours, hoping that you can inflict _some_ sort of damage before anyone realizes you’re panicking.” Even spat it more than he said it, but the effect was immediate: Ienzo stood stalk-upright, as though he’d be struck. It was _Even’s_ turn, then, to be melodramatic. He placed a hand on his chest, as though pantomiming shock, “Oh my. How could the blathering old man have caught onto _that_ , I wonder? As though you didn’t learn it from _me_.” He lowered his hand back to the book he’d been examining earlier, lowering his gaze to its cover. “I’m well aware I’m not your favorite person, Ienzo.”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, eyes narrowed. His face was still calm, but Even knew his expression belied the tempest beginning to brew beneath the surface. “Don’t _begin_ to pretend as though it’s nearly as one-sided as that. Don’t act as though I don’t know _precisely_ what you think of me–”

“Zexion,” Even corrected flatly, quieting Ienzo again. “You know what I think– _thought_ –of Zexion.”

To that, Ienzo seemed to have no reply. A miracle in and of itself. His gaze remained on Even, unrelenting in its ferocity. And then, sensing, or perhaps only _fearing_ that he would not win this, he too lowered his eyes. He made a small, flippant noise and shook his head, making quick, clipped steps back towards the staircase to the Castle proper.

Even let him reach the base of the stairs before opening his book once more, speaking with the same flat, measured tone. “You can stay a little longer, you know,” he said; though he could no longer _see_ Ienzo, he felt him linger at the sound of his voice. “There’s a lot we left unfinished here. Heaven knows I can’t make sense of it all on my own.” Silence drifted between them, as choking as the dust particles that hung in the stale air. “I know this will be a foreign concept to you, but whether you like it or not, we share a trauma now, you and I. A considerable one. We’ve suffered together and we’ve survived together. Regardless of what you may want, you and I? We’re linked. _Inextricably.”_ Even flipped to another leathery page, fingers trailing the indentations his own pen once had left, what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Perhaps we should learn to make the most of that.”

The silence continued for such a time that Even found himself doubting whether Ienzo _had_ stayed, whether he _had_ heard him. But then, slowly at first, the muted sound of rubber soles on marble floors echoed closer and closer.

Ienzo opened another book from the pile and flipped through the front matter.


	6. Off-Kilter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for confusionsign on tumblr.

“It’s shock,” Even said with all the investment of an impatient parent. “It’ll wear off.”

Normally, Aeleus would’ve deferred to his judgment–he _was_ , after all, the one of them who best understood the workings of the body–but they had been awake for _weeks_ , had been complete for _weeks_ , and he wasn’t buying that anymore. “Not like any shock I’ve ever seen.” It was as close to open defiance as he got.

There was a sour curl to Even’s upper lip, his exasperation only a moment from twisting itself into fury, as was so common, anymore. “Yes. Well. Not many bodies have experienced what _we_ have, hmm? Humans aren’t meant to withstand what we have. It’s _some_ sort of shock. And it will wear off in due time.”

He didn’t appreciate the tone. “We’ve all been through the same ordeal. _We’re_ fine. _He’s_ not.”

Even clucked his tongue before briskly walking away. “The boy’s always had a flair for the melodramatic.”

They had all been thrust back into this world, this life, and there were times–this one included–that made it feel as though they were starting from square one. Meeting each other all over again, forging bonds and relations. Aeleus had _so_ hoped Even and Ienzo would’ve been able to salvage… _something_. Anything.

Instead, they had seemed to repel one another with more fervor than before, acting as magnets–powerful forces of nature that pushed each other farther and farther away for being too similar. Ienzo’s strange behavior had only stoked that particular fire, driving Even up the wall.

There were moments, Aeleus hated to admit, where it was hard to find fault in Even for that. Since waking up, Ienzo had been…different.

 _Manic_. The word he kept coming back to was _manic_.

He flit from task to task, never stopping, never resting. Lord help anyone who got him talking, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of a markedly exuberant, enthusiastic, and _long-winded_ sermon. Ienzo spoke without breathing, worked without sleeping, existed without pausing. And in those strange moments when someone _did_ get him to stop between projects, his hands never did.

Ienzo had taken to clicking pens, snapping his fingers, fiddling with his ascot, and most noticeably, tangling his fingers in his hair. His hands were _always_ in his hair, pushing it from out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ears, twisting in fistfuls from the root whenever he encountered any sort of setback.

It was unnerving, more than anything else. Zexion had always been so calm in his demeanor, so very, very placid. They had been on missions where he’d seen him remain perfectly still for impossible stretches of time, barely moving save for the dilation of his pupils or the slow rise and fall of his chest. He had been a creature of camouflage and stealth. Ienzo was a jittery blur of movement, buzzing like a mosquito with anxious energy.

Something was _not_ right.

He rolled his eyes as the last echoes of Even’s footsteps disappeared, walking forward and pushing the door to Ansem’s study wide with an open palm. Ienzo didn’t look up from the shelf of books even as he entered.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Aeleus informed him, watching as he flipped through the yellowed pages of a particularly dusty book. “You should get some sleep.”

“Mmm,” was his only reply, brow furrowed, eyes scanning every word with breakneck speed as he turned each page.

Huffing a breath, he folded his arms across his chest; he was still getting used to the fabric of his uniform, so accustomed to the warning stretch of the taut leather cloak he’d worn for so long. “Are you listening to me?”

“Mmm.” A slightly higher pitch.

He took a step forward and sighed, plucking the book from Ienzo’s hands. “Ienzo.”

It was _then_ that he looked up, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile that managed to be equal parts reassuring and perfectly unconvincing. “I’m listening,” he said, reaching back for the book. “I _am_ ,” he parroted, more forcefully as Aeleus refused to release the book. “And I _will_ –I’ll get some rest. Once I’m done.”

“No.” Aeleus set the book down with a muted thump, a good three shelves above Ienzo’s head. “You’re going to make yourself sick. You haven’t slept in days.”

“Have you been _counting?”_ His tone was playful, joking; his smirk vanished, replaced with obvious surprise when Aeleus replied with a firm “Yes.”

A beat passed between them, and he could see the cogs whirling in Ienzo’s head–proof positive that he was, in fact, running on fumes. Ienzo took a deep breath in, and then that uncomfortable smile was back, and he turned to look through the shelves again. “I _will_. I just…I need to find…I don’t know if you remember, but there was this report that Ansem had…oh it was _years_ ago, now. I don’t know where I–” He grabbed another book, lips pursing with silent displeasure as it, too, was plucked from his grasp. He turned back to Aeleus, leaning one of his shoulders against the bookcase. “I said I _will_. I just need to _finish_ this.”

“You don’t.”

“I _do_.” One of his arms moved up, his fingers twisting around one of the longer strands of his hair, knotting and unknotting with jerky motions. “So let me.”

“ _No_.” He set the book down as he had the first. “You need to stop this.” Before Ienzo could get the first word out, Aeleus shook his head. “Don’t start, I won’t be distracted.” Ienzo shut his mouth, but the papery smile he’d worn had been replaced with something a bit more natural–a burgeoning scowl. “This isn’t helping anything. It isn’t helping _you_. You can’t stay busy forever. You’ll have to rest eventually. And when you do, when you’re not _thinking_ , you’re going to have to come to terms with some things. You don’t want to–I know that. But you can’t avoid it forever.”

Ienzo opened his mouth to respond again, but seemed to think better of it, clenching his jaw tightly and forcing his gaze away like a petulant child might.

“It’s not going to be easy. It’s not. Being alone with your thoughts after everything that’s happened…” Aeleus exhaled deeply, “It’s _torture_. But you can’t keep _doing_ this. You’d rather run yourself to death than have to face–”

“Why are you even _talking_ to me?!” The outburst was sudden, violent. Ienzo’s shoulders were tense, his posture strangely angular as he faced him down. The scowl had deepened, and the corners of his eyes had narrowed dangerously. Even so, Aeleus had seen Zexion’s ire before–this was decidedly less potent. “Why are you so _concerned?_ It’s not your job to keep me safe anymore, I’m not your _responsibility_ –”

“No,” he agreed, still perfectly calm. “You’re not.”

“ _Then why do you care?”_ His composure didn’t waver, so much as it crumbled. “Have you looked outside lately? Have you seen…” he gestured vaguely, “ _All of that?_ I did that. _Me_.” Ienzo jammed a finger into his own chest, eyes still defiant. “I destroyed this place. I ruined _all_ of our lives. And in Oblivion–” His voice cracked. It was slight, it was small, but it was telling. He swallowed hard. “Let me do what I need to do.”

“No.”

At that, he released a loud, fervent breath like a humorless laugh. “ _What is_ wrong _with you?!”_ Ienzo pushed himself up from his lean and away from the bookshelf, rounding on Aeleus. “Are you really this _thick?!_ Or just _pathetic?_ Do you not _realize_ that you’ve only ever been a _tool?”_ The pits of his cheeks were bright red with something Aeleus couldn’t quite place, his lower lip taking on a tremor he’d never before seen. “I _used_ you–just like Xehanort used _me_. That’s all I’ve _ever_ done, that’s all I’m ever going to _do!_ So why won’t you _leave me alone?!”_

With a swift motion, he grabbed Ienzo’s wrist, keeping him from tugging at his hair again, trying to halt some of his frantic movement. “ _Stop_ it,” his voice was low but insistent, unyielding as his grip. “You aren’t acting like yourself.”

“I’m not _feeling_ like myself!” Ienzo snapped, and when he looked up to meet Aeleus’s gaze, his eyes were almost fever-bright.

That gave him pause, if only for a moment. He couldn’t recall one single, solitary instance of Ienzo using that word since waking up. _Feel._ His forehead creased with concern–with _realization_ –and when he next spoke, it was with a softened tone. “How _do_ you feel?” Aeleus watched as surprise flickered across Ienzo’s face, quickly followed by a flurry of microexpressions he’d never before seen twist at his features.

“…Bad.” The word caught in his throat, emerging part croak, part whisper. Ienzo took in a small, sharp breath; it was as though the thought had only just occurred to him. And it had. He looked away from Aeleus, focusing instead on the space between him and the bookcase, lips falling open into a deflated ‘o’ of shock. “ _Bad_ ,” he repeated, and when he pulled his hand from Aeleus’s, there was no resistance. Ienzo clasped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide as he drew in on himself. The glassiness of his eyes broke and then spilled over, running down his cheeks in tears he had expected to burn like acid.

But they didn’t. Instead, they were warm–warm with relief, with the beginnings of what could become acceptance. Nearly as warm as Aeleus’s arms as he pulled him against his chest.


	7. Reap What You Sow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by freezepride on tumblr.

The Gardens they had woken up in were not the Gardens they had fallen in, of that much they were immediately aware. No petals rode on the breezes, no faces could be seen behind the darkened windows, and the Castle seemed to loom like some monstrous and accusatory skeleton on the horizon. They hadn’t expected to wake up in the same world—truth be told, they hadn’t expected to wake up _at all—_ but what they _really_ hadn’t expected, what they had never _considered_ , was that they would wake up just as changed as their home.

For most, it was a subtle difference: Aeleus spoke up a bit more, Dilan didn’t sneer half so much, Even held his tongue from clucking, that sort of thing. For Ienzo, though…for Ienzo, it was night and day.

Suddenly the Schemer, the cloaked manipulator, the tiny monster couched in shadow, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, enthusiastic and… _smiling_. And not the smile they were used to, not the frightening, warning baring of perfect teeth; it was light and bright and everything they had never expected Ienzo to be. He was _helpful_ , he was _cheerful_ , he was _excited_ , even in the face of the furious townspeople and horrific truth of what they’d done. He would flit from room to room, tidying up or searching for long-forgotten sheaves of research papers, and as he did, he carried with him a crackling, bouncing sort of energy. Once, in the courtyard, Aeleus had heard him laugh—really _laugh_ , without a trace of cruelty or spite—and the sound rang in his ears for hours afterwards.

Somehow, it drove home the reality of the situation. This was a new life for them all, a new _chance_. They had shed their black cloaks and detached aliases, their weapons were cached and collecting dust. Instead of destroying, they would rebuild; instead of obeying a raised hand, they would answer only to their consciences. They were human and _whole_ , and their hearts beat with renewed vigor, as though trying to make up for lost time.

Radiant Garden slowly—very slowly—began to thrum with life around them once more. The stone pathways were restored, holes were patched, flora started to flourish. They struggled and toiled, and in the wake of their sweat sprang the light they’d once snuffed out. There weren’t as many glares in the town, there were fewer sharp whispers behind hands. The word “Apprentice” had ceased being a four-letter one, beginning to take on the meaning it had held a lifetime ago. So great was their progress, so laudable their ethic, that the shine of it all blinded them from what was happening until it seemed that it had come about all at once.

Ienzo’s change had been night and day, that much had been true. But now, it seemed, dusk had settled in. Slowly, his voice had begun to dry up, leaving him as silent and pensive as he had been when he stood only knee-high. The energy he brought with him fell flat, turning into a familiar umbrage of dull, anxious buzzing. And those smiles…the _laughter_ …they too shrank and shrank, never again becoming mean, but never again being what they should have been.

“Are you all right?” Aeleus had asked one night, a hand on the crook of Ienzo’s arm keeping him from escape. When those unfathomable eyes found his, he found he could no longer read the esoteric message behind them. The realization almost took his breath from him; in Oblivion, their minds had all but been one.

A corner of Ienzo’s mouth had quirked upwards in a slow, quiet smile. There was no mirth in it. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, but the echoes of his voice in the Castle walls seemed to ring _No_.

Before long, he was the silent specter of the child he used to be—perhaps taller now, perhaps wiser now, but just as gaunt. They had watched, perched on a knife’s edge, _waiting_ for the return of the monster. But he never came. It seemed the bright summer of Ienzo’s personality had simply given way to autumn, grown cloudy and chilly. There was no sharpness, they would note, no brittleness, no sudden snap of unbearable cold. He had simply…withered.

When the rumors finally reached the Castle, they were almost a relief. None of them had been entirely cut out for the position of leadership, after all. Dilan was steadfast and strong, but lacked benevolence of any shade; Aeleus was brave and understanding, but the sort to _follow_ orders instead of giving them; Even was brilliant and cunning, but his intelligence could never be mistaken for wisdom; and Ienzo, though the mantle should’ve fallen to him by nature, was quiet and sickly. Most damning of all, they had all seen _precisely_ what sort of leader he could be. So while tempered with apprehension, the news of Ansem’s return was almost _welcomed_ by them. His presence swept the Castle like a shadow, and as he found each of them, they found themselves kneeling in turn, one by one as they choked through their apologies.

All except, of course, Ienzo.

The night was dark when they met, the library lit only by a single bulb. Ienzo raised neither his eyes nor his voice as he felt his solitude ripple and give way, _feeling_ the lord long before seeing him. “I knew you’d find me eventually,” he commented softly, turning the page of the book spread before him. “I didn’t put any particular effort into avoiding you.”

From the darkness outside the lamp’s light, there was only silence. And then, as dry and yellowed with age as the pages of Ienzo’s book, came a voice. “No, you didn’t. I was very surprised at that.”

Ienzo snorted a quick breath through his nose, the sound derisive but hollow. “Were you? I wonder why. It’s not as though I’ve ever hidden from you before.” When he was met again with silence, he set his hands down, folding them primly across the pages of the book. In the harsh light, he looked very much unlike himself; when he raised his eyes, the effect only increased. Ansem realized in that very instant what the others had failed to for so long.

Being a Nobody, being heartless, being _Zexion_ …it had all carved into Ienzo as water carved through rock, leaving deep and lasting scars running through him. There were divots, perhaps even entire _chasms_ of him that had simply been chipped away until nothing had been left. And yes, he had managed to patch them up for a while, had made stunning attempts to try and seal them up, but there was no face brave enough to make up for what had been lost. The others had been waiting for his anger to return, his _cruelty_ , but Ansem recognized immediately that it would not and _could_ not return. Whatever had happened to him during his time in Oblivion had robbed that from him. He knew in that moment that even if Ienzo lived to be centuries-old, there would never be another flare of that righteous fury. At least, not as he once had known.

There was only exhaustion there, now. Exhaustion and an unspeakable, nigh unrecognizable sadness.

“The others have all begged your forgiveness, I’m sure. Made their ‘mea culpa’s, as it were.” Though he could not _see_ Ansem, he still could feel him, and kept his eyes unblinkingly fixed where he knew him to be. “You won’t be getting the same from me.” His voice was so even, so tired. “Apologies mean you regret what you’ve done. And while I’m sure it would make a much more heartwarming story and speed along whatever ‘healing’ needs to be done between us, I can’t say that I do. In fact, I know that, were I given the opportunity, I would do everything again. _Everything_. Exactly the same as before.”

Ansem remained silent, simply watching. He was not surprised, wasn’t even disappointed, but found himself saddened at the loss. Once, he had considered Ienzo his heir. Now, though? Now he found himself looking at the boy as though he were a corpse laid out at a wake, so full of unfulfilled promise, such a waste of faith.

Ienzo was not Zexion, but there was still that eerie sense of _knowing_ about him. As though he could hear Ansem’s thoughts, he flinched, dropping his eyes back to the book on the table. “All of my life, I have been…” His voice trailed off, his lips pursed, and he seemed to search for his words and composure in equal measure. “ _Disposable._ I won’t ask if you know what it’s like—you don’t—so believe me when I say there is no greater insult than to know you can be replaced.” When Ienzo raised his gaze again, there was something alien threatening to bubble up to the surface, something deeper than his exhaustion and deeper than his fatigue, something Ansem could only compare to despondency. “My parents wasted no time in filling the void I left with all manner of expensive things, did they? No,” he shook his head slightly, “They were…so happy to be rid of me. So… _relieved_. Like I was a cancer on them, eating away at the soft bits.

“And it didn’t take _you_ very long to tire of me, did it? The moment Xehanort staggered into our midst, I lost my luster. I was a conversation piece, an oddity, novel until I wasn’t.” He smiled, but it was not cruel. “I can’t blame you for that—I fell for it too. But Xehanort dropped me the moment Ïsa bared his fangs. I was loyal, I was brilliant, I was _ambitious_ …but small and sickly, and couldn’t slake his need for destruction.” He leaned to the side, resting his cheek against a hand, and though the posture was childish, it only served to make him look twice as forlorn. “Do I really need to go on about Even? I won’t dwell, because I’m sure you’ve already endured his wailings. He was never fond of me to begin with, I had no illusions about that. But to watch him fawn and _dote_ on…” Ienzo’s other hand waved curtly, dismissively. “The _replica._ The _puppet_. Fictional children with fictional needs when I was…” Another wave. He shook his head as punctuation. He looked off to another darkened corner of the library, gaze thousands of miles away, “And isn’t it _grand_ that Aeleus and Dilan find themselves as friends again? It’s so…” his eyes narrowed minutely, “ _Fantastic_.”

The silence that fell between them rang with the echoes of Ienzo’s voice. Ansem at once had everything and nothing to say; he had known Ienzo long enough and well enough to know that he was far from finished, but some part of him did not at all want to hear what else the boy had to say.

“When I was in the laboratories…when I was _Zexion_ …people _respected_ me.” Posture straightening, he looked every inch as regal as his pedigree. “I was _revered_. I had powers and _power_ , and I was…” His gaze grew distant again. “ _Important_.”

“Fear is not _love_ , Ienzo.” Ansem spoke slowly, almost placating in tone. He had come into this expecting a shouting match, expecting a _fight_. But as he stood there, he had found all the rancor drain from him, replaced with a dull pity he thought he had forgotten long, long ago. “They’re not the same thing.”

“ _Aren’t_ they?” Ienzo looked back to him then, the bags under his eyes aging him horribly, the harsh light of the lamp making his cheeks look sallower than they were. Ansem was dismayed, no…he was _grieved_ to find no trace of mockery in the boy’s voice. There was only earnestness. “I don’t know the difference, anymore.”

Ansem breathed deep, releasing it in a breath that took with it the last vestiges of hope. “My boy,” he said, speaking with the quiet acceptance of a mourner, “I know you don’t.”


	8. Familiar Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for exploringcastleoblivion on tumblr.

“What’s _his_ problem?” Riku asked one day, lungs still tight and brow still damp from training under the hot sun.

Lea furrowed his brow and glanced over his shoulder to follow Riku’s gaze. When he spotted Ienzo watching them from the edge of the town square, flanked as always by Aeleus’s brawn, the corners of his mouth seemed to tighten. “…No idea,” he said with his usual panache, shrugging animatedly before returning to twirling his Keyblade by its handle. 

But Riku had noticed the way the other’s expression had seemed to bubble upon spotting the Apprentice. There was a piece of the story he was still missing, he thought, if Lea’s feigned nonchalance and the strange look on the Ienzo’s face was anything to go by. 

Radiant Garden was still mostly a mystery to them all, but as time had passed, they’d become privy to certain things. A wise old king they’d met in passing, a beautiful world turned to ash by darkness and greed, bright minds led astray, and a people full of hope and apprehension. The pieces didn’t quite fit together just yet–there were pages still missing from the story, but whether from hurt feelings, scarred pride, or maybe just assumptions about what they could and couldn’t understand at their age, no one seemed particularly keen on filling in those gaps.

Still, he’d seen the portraits inside the ruin of the Castle, and he’d heard whispers when Lea and his fellow defectors had reemerged in the bounds of the world. He thought maybe, impossibly, they had somehow been _worse_ before the Organization, when they still had hearts and souls and consciences.

During his short stay in Oblivion (his short _rule_ , Lea was quick to joke, what with the way he laid waste to everyone who stood in his path), he had only known the three of them by scent and by sight. Vexen had been the one to unnerve him most, with his clone and his shrillness and the way he watched him like a rat in a maze. Lexaeus had terrified him with his brute strength, had exhausted him with his unstoppable fury, and had it not been for the monster sleeping deep within himself, Riku doubted he would’ve been able to fell the goliath in the way he had. And then…there had been Zexion.

A finger of chill ran down his spine at the thought of their confrontation. He had seen how young the Organization member had been, how _small_ ; while the others had brandished large and gleaming weapons, he held only a book. But he had made the world melt around him, swirling in darkness and familiarity in turn, until Riku hadn’t been able to tell up from down or reality from nightmare. They had fought, and it had been _ferocious_. For someone so possessed by darkness, for someone so sickly, Zexion had attacked and attacked and attacked, unrelenting, in a manner that was frighteningly (and implausibly) reminiscent of the giant who’d fallen before him.

So it stood to reason that, upon waking up again, Ienzo would harbor some animosity towards him. Or at least it _would_ …if Riku had destroyed him.

But he _hadn’t_.

Zexion had been defeated, true. But while he had watched as Lexaeus dissipated into the air, nothing more than inky tendrils of night accompanied by a final apology, Zexion had _fled_. The dying blow had not been Riku’s to strike.

And Ienzo showed little interest in Sora, much less distaste. Stranger still, he seemed to have a distinct streak of respect for Kairi, something that could’ve been confused for a genuine appreciation of her presence. It was only _Riku_ that Ienzo seemed to distrust. It was only _Riku_ who stood to receive sidelong leers and curled upper lips, upturned noses and snide comments made just out of earshot.

He didn’t understand.

Lea continued to babble about how hard he’d been training, and how he’d be the one beating the rest of them, before long, but his voice had turned to a stinging drone in Riku’s ear. He watched from the corner of his eye as another figure, tall and gaunt as ever, joined the others in brief conversation before pulling Ienzo away toward the Castle grounds. _Even_ , of course. The ones in the labcoats seemed to stick together, despite the chill between them.

Riku shouldered his Keyblade, watching as they shrank on the horizon, feeling Aeleus’s gaze insistently on him.

There was still so much he didn’t know. But Lea’s anxiety and Ienzo’s distaste brought a strange, unheeded thought to the forefront of his mind–the answer to a question he’d never asked, but had always rested just barely on the tip of his tongue.

_The clone had had his face._


	9. Friendly Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for countyourcurses on tumblr.

“You really shouldn’t try so hard.”

Lea started, jarred from his thoughts at the sudden, disembodied voice. He hadn’t needed to spend too much time looking for the source–even in the fading light of dusk, the white of Ienzo’s lab coat was nearly luminescent. “You ever gonna grow out of that? Sneaking around?”

Ienzo watched him carefully as he approached, taking careful inventory of each and every step he took. It had been weeks since they’d awoken in Radiant Garden (or was it Hollow Bastion?), heads thrumming and chests uncomfortably full, but there was still a dangerous current of tension lingering between them. “You’re running yourself ragged,” he commented breezily, turning his head back to the horizon, watching as the sun languidly sunk below the city line. “If I were you, I’d reconsider.”

He scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes as he gestured to himself. “I know this one’s gonna be hard for you to grasp, but some of us actually _enjoy_ exercise,” his tone was playful, mocking in only the gentlest way–Lea had not yet decided whether he trusted Ienzo more (or less) than he had Zexion. “Sweat is a good look on me.”

Leaning his head back against the Castle wall, Ienzo let his gaze slide back to Lea. “I wasn’t referring to your…” his eyes flitted to the Keyblade in the other’s hand, “ _Training_.” He huffed a small, impatient breath. “I meant you shouldn’t try so hard with _them_.” In one curt motion, he nodded his head towards the other side of the Gardens, where the retreating silhouettes were already barely more than moving, laughing dots. “Doesn’t matter how hard you try. They’ll hate you either way.”

At that, the fluidity of his stance drained away, becoming harsher, more poised. _Defensive_. He recognized it a second too late, a second _after_ Ienzo did, and he struggled to regain his appearance of nonchalance. “Don’t know what you mean,” he shrugged loosely, his usual smirk hanging comfortably. “They’re–”

“Not your friends,” Ienzo finished for him. His tone was abrupt, but lacking the sort of cruelty to which he was accustomed. “And _you_ aren’t _theirs_.” He pushed himself up from his lean, approaching Lea with arms folded across his chest. It was strange–so very, very strange, how much he could look like Even, in the right light. “They’ll _never_ see any of us as anything other than monsters. You realize that, don’t you?” His eyes moved across Lea’s face with laser-like proficiency, and it was hardly a full second later that he clucked his tongue with realization. “You don’t. I suspected as much.”

Bristling, he let the friendly façade drop entirely, moving to walk past him. “I don’t need this from you.”

“When they look at you,” Ienzo started, having not moved an inch, “Do you think they see Lea? Or do you think they see _Axel?”_ Even with his back to him, Ienzo could feel him stop mid-stride. “Do you think they can _ever_ be comfortable around you?” he asked, something upsettingly earnest in his voice. “After what you’ve done?” There was no response _. “_ Riku refuses to so much as look Aeleus in the face, after their little… _encounter_. I wonder…do you think Kairi would spend any time around you, without a weapon on hand? Do you think Sora will ever be able to look at you without remembering you set an old man on fire right in front of him?” He brushed a piece of lint off of his shoulder. “We’re not _people_ to them, Lea. They’ll only ever see us as _tools_. Tools to rebuild. Tools to stop Xehanort. And once we’re not useful anymore, then we’re perfectly expendable. Because there’s no guilt. Because we were never their friends. Just _things_. Awful, slimy things that came from the darkness.”

Scowling, Lea turned to look over his shoulder for just an instant. “Not _everyone_ thinks like you, y’know. We don’t _all_ hold grudges forever, _some_ people know how to _forgive_.”

Ienzo waited until the angry footsteps behind him began to grow quieter to sigh, shaking his head. “You’re in for a rude, rude awakening,” he said to the evening air, craning his head back to watch as the moon began its slow ascent.


	10. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for unsafebet on tumblr.

“How did you get this one?” Ienzo asks, sliding his fingers along a thin scar over Aeleus’ ribs. He shivers at the unexpected touch, Ienzo’s skin cool against his, and turns to fully face him.

For a moment—brief and visceral—the eyes in the dimly lit corridor are Zexion’s…and then the light shifts and the illusion breaks. “I didn’t,” he answers gruffly, using his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow as he does his best to ignore the electric tingle where Ienzo’s skin meets his own.

“You _didn’t_?” he asks, raising an eyebrow incredulously, “You _didn’t_ get this scar? Well that’s strange, considering I’m looking right at it…I think you’ve been spending too much time in the training grounds, all that sun can’t be good for your—”

"I didn’t,” Aeleus repeats, but there’s an edge to his voice now that he hadn’t intended. “Lexaeus did.”

He can _feel_ Ienzo pull back—not physically, but _mentally_. It’s reminder enough that not _everyone’s_ wounds had scabbed over quite yet. Ienzo’s eyes search his face for an instant, and then flit back to the scar as he presses his palm flat against it. “I could probably heal it,” he offers, and Aeleus doesn’t doubt it, but he takes Ienzo’s hand up in his all the same.

“I’ll still know it’s there.”


	11. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt fill for 3ternal3nigma on tumblr!

**_I._ **

They awake in the small hours—the inscrutable time where it’s impossible to parse whether they’re closer to night or day—to the sound of screaming. There isn’t time to think, there isn’t even time to _listen_ , there is only time to react, and so they jump from their respective beds; one stumbles, one all but flies with fear, and one charges with weapon in hand.

It isn’t until their doors are open that they recognize the shrill shriek for what it truly is—a brutal gale of wind whistling through the narrow corridors. Only Aeleus is strong enough to keep his bedroom door from slamming back in his face, though he still spares a quick glance to the other side of the hall where twin slams are punctuated by twin thumps as Ienzo and Even prove too weak.

There is one of their number who is conspicuously absent amid the squall.

Aeleus forces his way forward, presses himself flat to the walls as he sidles to the fourth door, and begins to pound with all his might. There is a long moment where he feels his footing begin to slide, feels the wind shoving the mass of his body like some thug picking a fight—and then, as suddenly as it begun, it ends. The sudden shift in pressure leaves him feeling choked, almost strangled, as though all the air had been vacuumed out around him.

After a beat, the door swings outward. Dilan appears, disheveled and disoriented, eyes open but only half-seeing.   
  
_**II.**_  
  
It’s not all at once that they wake up, rather, it’s Dilan who seems to notice first. He’s startled from his sleep as though by a crack of thunder, but as he strains his ears, he’s met with nothing but silence. As the sleep begins to trickle away from him, his awareness returns, and it’s then that he realizes what’s amiss.

In front of him, his breath plumes in great, thick clouds. He inhales sharply and the sheer chill of the air sends daggers throughout his chest; he’s coughing and coughing and coughing, but the cold is so intense that his throat almost won’t allow him to draw in another breath.

He can barely make out the geography of his room by the light of the moon, which is strange in and of itself until his vision sharpens and he sees the frost. It’s crept across the panes in thick, skeletal veins, splitting out into fractals—delicate but barbed. And as he steps out of bed, his bare feet find that it has spread like some sort of translucent ivy, crisscrossing his floor, his walls, the bedside table; in his surprise he knocks over a forgotten glass of water and it topples to the floor, shattering but not spilling, instead sending shards of glass and ice clattering across the room.

There’s a dull stabbing sensation in the sole of his foot as he steps on something frigid, and he knows that once he thaws out it will blossom into something pointed and painful. His footing slips, but he catches himself against his door. The knob sticks no matter how hard he turns it, and he suspects that it, too, is frozen. He jams his shoulder into the door with all his might but it does not budge, likely swollen in its frame. “ _EVEN!_ ” he shouts instead, chest straining against the chill, ears ringing as he absolutely _decimates_ the silence of the Castle. And then again, for good measure, “ _EVEN!_ ”

From somewhere down the hall, muted by walls and doors, there is a sound. It’s small, but it’s there. The next moment, the ice begins to sweat, begins to drip, begins to run, and Dilan finds he can breathe again.

The door opens more readily now, and he pushes his way into the hall, acutely aware of the smear of blood he brings with him. In the middle of the corridor—in front of _Ienzo’s_ door, his brain notes with a bitter note of specificity—Aeleus and Ienzo shiver. There’s a strange, uncomfortable clicking sound that appears to be Ienzo’s chattering teeth; there are small patches of frost dusting the tips of Aeleus’s hair, aging him prematurely. They both look _exceedingly_ unhappy as they exchange looks with Dilan.

They turn to train their eyes on Even’s door, waiting for him to appear, waiting for him to explain himself, but he never does.   
  
_**III.**_

Sans decorum, sans warning, Even is flung from his bed. He makes an indignant sound as he collapses somewhere between his bedframe and the wall—or at least he _thinks_ he does. He had only just entered deep sleep, and being jarred so suddenly from it has dulled his ability to think. All he knows is that he _was_ in bed, but now he is _not_ ; he _was_ asleep, but now he is painfully awake.

Emphasis on “ _painfully_.”

He tries to get to his feet but finds that he can’t. For a moment, he is seized by both terror and an endless mental scroll of degenerative diseases. It isn’t until the lamp standing less than a yard from him is sent careening into the opposite wall that he makes the connection—the problem lies not in his own foundation, but the very foundation of the Castle itself.

Again, he tries to right himself, knowing full well that it’s a futile fight. But already he can hear the warning squeal of metal straining, can see the heavy frame of his bed inching towards him, and can see the disaster happening in his mind’s eye. His sense of balance is gone as the floor dips and bobs beneath him, but the _real_ panic doesn’t set in until a fine mist of dust begins to rain down from the ceiling. Then he watches with wide eyes and bated breath as a crack starts in the far corner of the ceiling, spreading and widening and slicing its way down towards his window.

Then the Castle seems to _jump_ below him, and he’s sent flying again, crashing like a rag doll against his door frame. Moments later, an aftershock sends his bedframe _shooting_ across the room, smashing into the wall he’d only just been thrown from. There’s a final, weak rumble, and then it’s over; he can hear the Castle groan and moan as it settles back into itself, its bones creaking and thrumming like his own.

By the time his legs have stopped shaking enough to support his weight, Aeleus is at his door, looking tired and sheepish and offering to help fix what can be salvaged.  
  
 _ **IV.**_

There is someone standing over his bed.

Ienzo doesn’t just suspect it; he _knows_.

The figure is dark and opaque but also swirling like fog. Its eyes gleam orange and red and yellow in turn, burning like hellfire, glowing like embers. It had started off in the corner of the room, couched in shadow, and he had watched, unable to move, as it took step after quiet step towards him. It brought with it the smell of carrion and vomit, acidic but sweet in a cloying, horrible sort of way.

Behind the thing, the walls have begun to melt. The colors run and swirl like watercolors, warping the frame of his window, the lines of his bookshelves, the very shape of the room itself. The roof has disintegrated and he can see the sky beyond it, black and endless, gaping like the hungry mouth of a starving predator. Even as he looks, he thinks he can see teeth beginning to form where the rafters once were, dripping frothing saliva like rain.

He can’t take his eyes away from it, and knows implicitly that if he does, he will most certainly die. His breath is lead in his chest, there are cords standing out on his neck, he can feel the burn of a scream somewhere locked in his throat. He can’t move his arms or his legs or even open his mouth to call to the others.

The thing creeps over him, and he can feel the mattress dip under its weight. Impossible as it is, he can still see its outline perfectly against the void of the sky, can see its shape glimmer in a way that is almost opalescent. He is powerless to watch as it reaches out with hands hands hands too many hands, wrapping tens of hundreds of fingers around his throat, choking off what little air there was left in the room, and then—

With a start, he sits up. His hands are pressed to his collarbone, and he can feel his heart racing; he thinks it might break through his ribs. The feeling is still new to him, still alien, so he keeps his palms flush against his skin until he feels the rhythm begin to slow again.

 _I had a nightmare_ , he thinks to himself, and cringes internally. It was hours before he found himself falling back into a restless sleep, and even then, he finds himself wondering whether the knot in his stomach is from how childish the revelation feels to him, or how _deeply_ he doubts the truth in it.

 


	12. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt fill for triceraclops on tumblr!

“Even is gone.”

“Have you checked the garden?” Ienzo asked, not bothering to look up from the screen of the small device in his hand. “You know how the elderly _love_ wandering in gardens…”

“ _Ienzo_.” Aeleus’s voice was firm in a way it hadn’t been since his uniform had been hooded. “Even is _gone_.” 

He did look up then, his expression veiled. “I heard you the first time.”

“They _took_ him.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t need to ask who or why or even _when_ ; nowadays, those questions were pointless, the answer always boiling down to the same thing. Xehanort–it was _always_ Xehanort, or _because of_ Xehanort, or _for_ Xehanort–same as it had been since before the Garden had fallen, and he’d only stood knee-high to the other Apprentices. Ienzo turned his attention back to the device in his palm, fingers tapping at the screen methodically. “Are we…surprised?” 

Aeleus sputtered, uncharacteristically taken aback. His face was hot with indignation, fingers itching for something heavy and blunt to swing at the walls, and it quickly dawned on him that this was real, righteous _anger_. The sort he hadn’t felt in a lifetime. “How can you be so _nonchalant?!”_ He flung his arm out in a gesture that didn’t feel half as cathartic as he had hoped, mouth pursing into a grimace when Ienzo didn’t so much as flinch. “You _know_ what’s going to happen to him! You _know_ what they’re going to do, you–”

There were a great many things Ienzo had learned in his short lifetime. Unfortunately, determining which battles to pick and which to let lie was not on that list. He set the device down onto the table and fixed Aeleus with the full intensity of his gaze, perfectly placid, almost horribly unmoved. “What do you want from me here? Hmm? Do you want me to…shout? Should I throw something? Break something?” He swept an arm out to the ruin of the laboratory around them, never breaking eye contact. “Not much left to smash.”

Before he could respond, there were footsteps from behind him, echoing flatly on the marble flooring. “What are we smashing?” Dilan asked groggily, absently rubbing at a knot of tense muscle at the back of his neck. His eyes moved slowly from Aeleus to Ienzo and back again, gaze calculating. “It seems I’ve interrupted.”

“Hardly,” Ienzo replied, voice toneless but curt. Still, he made no move to go back to his work, turning himself to better face the Guards. “They took Even,” he said in such a matter-of-fact way that Aeleus felt another red-hot surge of fury bloom upwards from his gut. 

Dilan seemed to contemplate that for a moment, folding his arms across his barrel of a chest. “Ah. And we’re…surprised?” 

Aeleus _did_ lash out then, grabbing up the damned thing Ienzo had been working on and hurling it across the lab. There was a distant _bang_ and a faint tinkle of broken glass from wherever it had landed. “Why are you _doing_ this?!” He whirled to face the both of them, arms spread wide, cheeks high with feverish color. “I _refuse_ to believe that neither of you _care!_ He’s _one of us!_ He’s _one of ours!_ All that we _had_ were each other, and now they just–” He let his voice drop, reaching up to knot frantic fingers into his own hair. It had been so long since they felt _anything_ , and now this…this was just…it was too much, too fast, too soon. 

Ienzo’s eyes had smoothly followed the arc of his project until it had shattered into a million tiny pieces. He let his gaze snap back to Aeleus, then, not without a hint of agitation. Slowly he blinked, the movement slow and thick as though he had a head cold, and leaned his weight against the table. “Wouldn’t you rather it be him tha–”

“Don’t.” Dilan flicked his eyes to Ienzo’s, raising a brow knowingly. “ _Don’t_.” 

To his own surprise, Ienzo shut his mouth, letting the sentiment hang half-finished in the air like so many dust motes.

“ _Where were_ you?!” he snapped, turning his ire back to Ienzo. “Even was _your_ charge! He was _your_ responsibility!” 

Eyes narrowing, Ienzo bristled beneath his labcoat. It was a gesture that would’ve been intimidating, had he still been Zexion, but now just made him seem a petulantly spoiled brat. “ _My_ responsibility?” He had considered standing from his chair until remembering precisely _how_ much taller the Guards were, and promptly rejected the idea. 

“Well, one thing we can agree on,” Dilan began, rolling his eyes up to the high ceiling, “Is that since I’ve been unconscious all this time, he _certainly_ wasn’t _mine_.”


End file.
